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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29568474">Seeing White</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsDay/pseuds/MsDay'>MsDay</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Diners, M/M, Running Away, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:29:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,807</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29568474</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsDay/pseuds/MsDay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where your soulmate is chosen for you by an as yet not understood cosmic force with an OK Cupid questionnaire, can two unlikely heroes, who've never spoken IRL, find love?</p><p>Or,</p><p>Stiles gets rejected by his soulmate and decides that the best course of action is to run away from his problems by running away from home</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>312</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>It appeared when he was three. Not that he remembers it. As far as he knows, there's always been a 'Peter' on the inside of his left wrist and a 'Hale' on the inside of his right.<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't remember when the name appeared, but he remembers when he learned not to talk about it.<br/>
<br/>
Whenever he would bring it up, when he would ask Mom to read it for him, to tell him what the letters said, she would smile and oblige. When he got a bit older, could read the name on his own and was beginning to understand what it meant, she didn't smile so much.<br/>
<br/>
He would talk about him, his Peter, his soulmate, his love, and Mom and Dad would share a look. Purse their lips and glance at each other sideways. That was a bad look. That was the we're-going-to-start-lying-to-you-now look. He learned quickly not to bring up his Name anymore.<br/>
<br/>
When he was seven, he met a Hale. A woman named Talia. He doesn't remember the interaction very well, but he remembers that she was pretty. He remembers her hair, thick and black and curly. He remembers that he had wanted to touch it.<br/>
<br/>
He also remembers a man. Looking at the man had given him a funny feeling in his tummy. Like when he's not looking and forgets that there's one more step. But he hadn't been falling.<br/>
<br/>
Miss Talia had said that he was her brother, but he didn't look like her brother. His hair was too light and his eyes were too blue.<br/>
<br/>
He didn't say anything about it, though. That would've been rude.<br/>
<br/>
He was ten when he'd gotten his first letter. The first letter written by Peter Hale.<br/>
<br/>
It had been short. He'd asked a few questions and left it at that. It hadn't seemed odd. After all, this was the age of text messages; correspondences are supposed to be short.<br/>
<br/>
He still has them, the letters. He hasn't gone back to the beginning in years. Not since he hit, what was it, twelve? Thirteen?<br/>
<br/>
The letters aren't just short, they're curt. Perfunctory. Obviously written with the goal of distracting a child. Or someone of lesser intelligence. The first one isn't all that different from the letter he got last week. All business.<br/>
<br/>
Hi Stiles, how have you been? How is your family? How are your friends? How are your studies? I'm well. Talk to you next month.<br/>
<br/>
Peter doesn't care. The tone of his letters hasn't changed in the last seven years and he just doesn't care. He has 87 letters and they all say the same thing, in the same way. I'm fine, how are you. That's nice. Talk again soon.<br/>
<br/>
It does matter, though. Having a Name on your wrists doesn't mean you'll end up married to the owner of that name. Doesn't mean your relationship has to be romantic. Doesn't even guarantee that that person will like you.<br/>
<br/>
He's obviously in the latter category; he just didn't know that until right now.<br/>
<br/>
All of this letter reading is making his eyes sting. All of this closet shelf dust is making his eyes water.<br/>
<br/>
But that doesn't matter. He puts the latest letter into his designated letter box and puts the box back in his closet.<br/>
<br/>
He puts away his nice fountain pen and his thick eggshell coloured letter paper and tucks his chair into the desk. All things he's gotten over the years to make the letters more special. More special than they really were, he realizes.<br/>
<br/>
He'd thought they were special. They'd meant something to him. But after rereading them, he's not so sure they meant anything to Peter.<br/>
<br/>
He curls up in his bed, with his back to the door and stuffs his face into his pillow. Not to cry. No, that would be childish. And stupid. And... Whatever else. He puts on some music and falls asleep.<br/>
<br/>
He thinks about the letter the next day. Normally he'd begin his response the day he reads Peter's letter. Spend the next few days formulating a proper reply and send it off within the week.<br/>
<br/>
But it doesn't matter. Because Peter doesn't care.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Scott knows that something is up. He asks, sure, but when Stiles tells him, very politely, to mind his own fucking business, he does. Stiles would’ve poked and prodded and whined and cajoled until Scott spilled his guts, firm in the belief that sharing your problems is the first step to overcoming them. For Scott. Or Dad. Or anyone else who isn’t him.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks of the letters. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t not. He’s spent nearly half his life dedicated to those letters. So excited to get them, to write his own, dedicating time and space and money to responding to them. But now. Now he sees what they were.</p><p> </p><p>His soulmate doesn’t love him. Doesn’t like him. Doesn’t care at all. He’d expected to go back and find something impersonal. A few sentences to a ten year old. Asking about trading cards or action figures or something. That’s fine, Peter had been older than he is now, when Stiles was born. Out of high school, out of college. He was a full adult when Stiles was still in utero.</p><p> </p><p>That thought hits him in the gut; makes his insides crawl. He’s a child. He goes to school and has a curfew. He doesn’t even have a part time job. Sure, he pays bills, but he uses his Dad’s money to do it. And, yes, he tends house, cooks and cleans, but he has to do that when he’s done with his homework. After he gets home from school.</p><p> </p><p>What could he possibly have in common with someone in his early thirties? He barely has anything in common with people his own age. Even Scott has to be bribed into doing Stiles’ thing, sometimes.</p><p> </p><p>Scott has been saving up for what he refers to as a motorcycle but is actually a dirt bike. Part of saving up is getting a ride home or to work from your friend who already has a car. They’re almost at the clinic when Stiles finally breaks.</p><p> </p><p>“What would you do if you found out that Katrina doesn’t love you? Doesn’t care at all. Is just humouring you until you grow up and realize that you’re completely incompatible.”</p><p> </p><p>He focuses more intently on the lights than he needs to, just so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with Scott. “Is that what’s wrong? Did you get a Dear Stiles letter?” He asks, all sympathy.</p><p> </p><p>“No.” He says. “Peter’s still pretending. He’s still-” He takes a deep breath and pulls up into the clinic parking lot. Scott makes no move to leave. “I read through his old letters. He still talks to me like I’m just some kid. Like I’m-” He shakes his head. Whatever Peter’s issue, it’s probably not about Stiles, personally.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s 32. He’s probably married with a couple of kids. He has a job and a house and a life.” He knocks his head back against the headrest a few times. “Sometimes the universe is wrong,” he says quietly.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you can-”</p><p> </p><p>Stiles cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder, a smile, and a “you don’t want to be late. Doc Deaton’ll come drag you in if you’re late again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Scott returns Stiles’ smile with one of his own, more genuine smiles. He gets out, turning in the door to say, “my Mom’s picking me up, so you don’t have to worry about that.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m worried about your attendance record. Get out of my car,” he leans over and pulls the door closed. Scott flips him off, then waves and heads for the clinic.</p><p> </p><p>He lets his smile drop.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Dad’s there, when he gets home. He’s brought his work home, papers and manila folders strewn out all over the table. Stiles picks up the empty cup of coffee on his way by. “I was drinking that,” he calls. Stiles tips the cup, showing how much coffee there isn’t in it. “Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>“You eat, yet?”</p><p> </p><p>He hears paper shuffling behind him as he pulls down bowls and glasses. “Yeah, I had a steak and a cheeseburger on the way home,” Dad says lightly.</p><p> </p><p>“I guess you don’t need any of this, then,” he responds, equally lightly. He throws together some quick garlic bread as he spoons up some of the stew that he put into the slow cooker before he’d gone to school. They always eat early when Dad works the early morning shift.</p><p> </p><p>They set the table just as the garlic bread finishes. Dad’s cleared away his work and the table is oddly empty. But, it’s been oddly empty since Mom died.</p><p> </p><p>“So, you get your letter, yet?”</p><p> </p><p>His heart clenches. It hurts. It’s salt in the wound. Dad knew. He had to. Peter didn’t just pluck their address out of thin air. He talked to Mom and Dad. Maybe still does.</p><p> </p><p>“I did. Yesterday.” He tries to make it sound normal. Tries to make it sound like he isn’t screaming on the inside.</p><p> </p><p>Dad smiles. Apparently Stiles is convincing enough. “What’s he up to?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh. Ms. Boots had her babies.” Ms. Boots. Because Peter is so determined not to let Stiles in that he’d rather talk about his neighbour’s cat. That hadn’t even occurred to him. He wants to cry. Wants to curl up in bed or in the shower and just leak. He smiles. Dad smiles back.</p><p> </p><p>“Is he gunna adopt one?”</p><p> </p><p>“Dunno. He has six weeks to decide,” Stiles says. “I guess we’ll find out.”</p><p> </p><p>He goes up to his room as soon as he can. He hadn’t thought of Dad. When he’d been considering Peter and his lack of interest, he hadn’t even thought about his parents.</p><p> </p><p>They had to have talked. So Dad knows, then. He has to. He has to know that Peter doesn’t care; that he isn’t interested.</p><p> </p><p>How much do they talk? How much does he know? Does Dad know that Peter isn’t interested, or does he know that Peter’s married, or dating, or a fucking monk, or what. Do they chat or have they not spoken since Peter started writing him? Sometime before?</p><p> </p><p>He shuts his bedroom door and falls against it, sliding down and resting his forehead on his knees. He’s not having a panic attack. He’s having something, but it’s not panic. Can you have a sad attack? A distraught attack? A bout of melancholia? That sounds like something he would need a billowy pirate shirt for. It’s probably something else.</p><p> </p><p>He takes deep breaths and presses his palms into his eye sockets. The itch passes after a minute, but the emotion doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Dad knew. He fucking knew. He had to. His soulmate doesn’t care about him in the least and his Dad, both his parents, knew about it. Maybe they even set it up. Write poor little Stiles a few letters and hope he finds someone else to love. Someone else to care about him.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not sure it wouldn’t have been kinder to just tell him when he was a kid. He’d have had years to get over it. He’d have been fine. Why drag it out except for the protestations of the parents who would’ve had to deal with the fallout.</p><p> </p><p>The skin under his Name is soft, delicate. He can feel the tendons underneath, when he presses his thumb into it. His thumb nail leaves a crescent behind, white at first, then red, when the blood comes back.</p><p> </p><p>He gets up. He’s angry. Angry and sad and he wants to fight. Wants to swing at something and watch it hurt. Hurt as much as he does. He yanks open his closet door and pulls out the only hand length shirt he has. The only shirt that’ll cover his Name.</p><p> </p><p>Most people don’t want to cover their Names. Most clothing manufacturers don’t make hand length sleeves. There are white cuffs for people who’s Names have faded after their soul mate’s death. A sign of mourning, not to be taken lightly. Some people wear them until they move on, some, like Mr. Daugherty across the street, wear them even twenty years later.</p><p> </p><p>He’ll have to settle for over-long sleeves.</p><p> </p><p>It takes him longer than it should to finish his homework. He keeps getting distracted by his fucking sleeves. He’d put on the damn shirt so he wouldn’t get distracted by his Name, but instead, he’s getting distracted by not being able to see his Name. By the fabric rubbing against his wrist in a way that he’s not used to.</p><p> </p><p>What’s the point, though, really? He’s been rejected. He’s not wanted. His soulmate is never going to care for him the way he wants.</p><p> </p><p>He knows that it’s just rumours and hoaxes; just facebook drivel. The ‘studies’ that say those without soulmates or those who’ve been rejected die younger than those who maintain their soul bonds. But. But, the way he feels now? He can believe them. He can understand why Romeo drank a bottle of poison, even if that was fiction.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The weeks that follow are too slow and too fast at the same time. The time drags, but before he knows it, there’s another letter in his mailbox.</p><p> </p><p>He almost doesn’t open it. Almost leaves it in the box. Dad will see it, though. Will know that something’s wrong. As angry as he is about the whole thing, he can’t really blame is parents for wanting to spare him the pain of that particular heartbreak.</p><p> </p><p>The letter stays on his desk for two days before he finally opens it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stiles,</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I hope this letter finds you well. I didn’t receive your last letter. Did you write?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’ve adopted one of the kittens from next door.</em>
  <em> Her name is Tabasco (I didn’t name her), though I </em>
  <em>call her dumbass more than her actual name. Maybe I should just change it</em>
  <em>. She likes to jump up high and knock over decorations. I’ve been woken up in the middle of the night by the sounds of glass shattering. More than once.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’m not sure what else to add. Work is going well. A friend was in a car accident, but he’s fine now. I went to a party last week where someone got so high he thought he could fly. I pulled him in from the 12</em>
  <sup>
    <em>th</em>
  </sup>
  <em> story window before he jumped. I haven’t followed up with him, so I’m not sure if he tried again. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yours, Peter</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He scoffs, when he reads it. Most of it is about his new cat. What kind of letter is that? It goes back into the envelope and into the letter box in his closet. He wont be responding. Peter’ll get the hint. Just like Stiles did. Took him long enough, but in his defence, he was ten when the letters started. He was mostly just excited to have a pen pal.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders if he’s too old to join one of those prisoner pen pal programs. Are those even still a thing? Maybe he’ll look into that.</p><p> </p><p>His phone rings. Unusual, but not unheard of. It’s Scott. “Hey,” he says into the receiver.</p><p> </p><p>“Stiles! I found her! Katrina, I found her. She just brought her new puppy into the clinic for shots. Stiles, I found her. She’s so pretty-”</p><p> </p><p>“Scott!” he has to be loud, to be heard over Scott’s rambling. “Breathe, dude. Are you still working?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh. No. Dr. Deaton gave me the rest of the day. She’s taller than I am and her hair is so red-”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs. “Why are you talking to me? Shouldn’t you be getting to know your soulmate?”</p><p> </p><p>“What? She went to the bathroom. We went to the coffee place down the street, but she’s in the bathroom. I had to call and tell you-”</p><p> </p><p>“Dude,” he tries to make it as soothing as he can, “dude. Take a breath. Hang up the phone. Take a sip of whatever you have in front of you, then, when she gets back, tell her that her hair is pretty. But, don’t be creepy about it; don’t tell her that you want to pet it or something.”</p><p> </p><p>Scott laughs, “Yeah, you’re right. Ok. This is just. I mean- Here she comes,” he whispers, “gotta go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be creepy!” he yells, but he hears dial tone. Hopefully Scott managed to process that bit.</p><p> </p><p>The joy he’d felt for Scott sours in his gut. He has a soulmate, too. Knows who he is. They don’t talk. Not like Scott and Katrina will. He just rambles and every now and then, Peter tells him about his neighbour’s cat.</p><p> </p><p>His stomach sinks. That’s how he talks to his Father. He rambles about what interests him and, if he feels like it, Dad responds with something tangentially related or just laughs and says OK.</p><p> </p><p>He’d thought the first Realization was bad. The he-doesn’t-really-care realization, but this. This is so much worse. The he-sees-you-like-a-son realization. The he-treats-you-the-way-your-Dad-does realization. The you’ll-always-be-a-kid-to-him realization. He’s not sure which is the most accurate, but does it really matter? Does it matter why his soulmate doesn’t want him?</p><p> </p><p>The backpack on the back of his doorknob is full of homework. Full of assignments and reports and handouts. Full of textbooks and math and English and science. He knows that life, even his teenage life, is more than just a soul bond, but he’s having a really hard time convincing himself of that.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been a month since The Realization and every day he’s had to fake smiles and feign interest and pretend to care. Is that what Peter’s been doing? Has he been forcing himself to do this? Is Stiles even talking to Peter? For all he knows, Peter hands off his letters and Stiles has been talking to his girlfriend. For all Stiles knows, she does dramatic readings in funny voices and they laugh about them. About him.</p><p> </p><p>He knows that he’s catastrophizing. He remembers therapy, ok? That doesn’t mean it just stops. Having a name for the thing doesn’t mean that the thing just stops happening. He’s spiralling and he needs to stop it.</p><p> </p><p>He pulls himself up to his computer and boots up Overwatch.</p><p> </p><p>A few rounds. A few head shots. A few losses. And no wins. He’s about ready to take a baseball bat to his keyboard. It’s not the keyboard’s fault that he sucks today, but it would be easier to blame that than acknowledge why he’s sucking so much ass.</p><p> </p><p>It’s because his best friend found his soulmate. A month after he’d realized that he’d been rejected by his own. That he’d been getting rejected for years. That his Dad, and maybe even his Mom, who’s been dead for six years, knew that this was happening and did nothing. Said nothing. Just let it happen. His Dad, the only family he has, the person closest to him in all the world knew that his soulmate didn’t want him and he just smiled like nothing was happening. Letting him go on and on like the stupid kid he is. Like the stupid kid Peter thinks he is. Knows he is.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he should just leave.</p><p> </p><p>The thought is a surprise, but not really. Everyone he knows has been lying to him for his entire fucking life.</p><p> </p><p>He loves Dad. And he knows that Dad loves him. But it hurts. It hurts so fucking much.</p><p> </p><p>And he knows, he remembers what it was like to get that first letter and the ones that came later. He remembers Scott telling him to shut up about Peter. He hadn’t been in love, but he’d wanted to be. He’d assumed that he would be. His parents were soulmates and they were in love. Even when Mom had been sick, they’d still been in love. He’d wanted that. He’d anticipated that. He’d talked about it like it was a given. A foregone conclusion.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think he can handle Scott being in love. Not now. Not yet.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He was right. Scott is just as Scott as he always is. Just as oblivious to those around him. He tries, he wants to be a good person and do the right thing and blah blah, yaddah yaddah, whatever. He’s a fucking boy scout.</p><p> </p><p>Stiles had told him, in a round about kind of way, that Peter had rejected him. Normal people would limit what they say, what they gush, about their own soulmates.</p><p> </p><p>Stiles doesn’t hold his bond against him. He can’t blame him for that. Doesn’t even want to. No. He does blame Scott for ignoring his obvious discomfort. For not caring when Stiles asks him to tone it down a bit.</p><p> </p><p>He’s Scott. Wide-eyed, naive, oblivious Scott. At one point, Stiles had had to actually say the words “my soulmate rejected me” to get him to shut up, but twenty minutes later, he was hearing all about Katrina’s perfume and how she just naturally smells like lavender. No she doesn’t, Scott, that’s not how skin works.</p><p> </p><p>He cries more than he thinks he should. He doesn’t buy into the whole macho real-men-don’t-cry BS, but he does know for a fact that if Jackson ever caught him crying, he’d end up in a locker at the very least. He hides it. Goes to the bathroom, saves it for home, when he can, yawns really big to make his eyes water.</p><p> </p><p>He hates all the crying and self pity. Hates feeling like the child everyone thinks he still is.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s been a rough day. Katrina was at the mall, when he showed up. Scott hadn’t said anything about inviting her, but there she was. And Stiles had been totally unprepared. He’s seen them together. They’re sweet. They’re what Hallmark movies are made of. But Stiles is raw and vulnerable and he was completely unprepared for the love-fest.</p><p> </p><p>He gets home, so strung out from hiding away behind a wall of blasé that his hands are shaking. He manages to get into his house without dropping his keys, though it’s a close call, to find a letter on the table. A letter from Peter. A week early. With no fucking warning.</p><p> </p><p>Dad wouldn’t judge him for crying. Well, he’d try not to. He’d be supportive, if visibly uncomfortable. It’s a really good thing Dad’s not here. If Dad were here, he’d have to tell him why he’s upset. He’s not ready for that conversation. Or any of the conversations that would follow.</p><p> </p><p>He bursts into tears, dropping where he’s stood, in the middle of the kitchen. Crying over a pile of mail on the kitchen table. Crying over one letter in particular.</p><p> </p><p>He leaves the letter on the table, unopened. He packs his bag and leaves before Dad gets home. He doesn’t leave a note. He doesn’t take his phone. He doesn’t say goodbye. He regrets it as soon as he’s stepped outside, but he doesn’t turn back</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>He wishes he’d brought Roscoe. But not really. He can’t afford gas. Even if he does have enough in his pocket to get him to San Francisco, what then? No more gas money, no job to get more gas money, no Roscoe. He’s not leaving his jeep, his Mom’s jeep, in some strange city filled with greedy strangers and criminals.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Even if it is fucking raining.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The road is slick and the shoulder is gravel. He slides a few times, but manages to catch himself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His thumb is cold. He never thought that the hardest part of hitchhiking would be a cold thumb. He hasn’t been picked up yet, though.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s getting dark and the road out of town is poorly lit. That being said, he will walk to the next town over if he has to. He can’t stop. Dad is probably home by now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s a honk and a white van pulls up in front of him. It’s an old VW. He jogs up to the passenger window, “hey,” he says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey,” the driver says, over the passenger. They both look high. He’s too cold to care. “You need a ride? Get in,” he jerks his thumb at the back seats.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thanks,” Stiles says, going for the handle. The car pulls away a few feet and he can hear the assholes inside laughing. He sighs and turns around. He’s not playing that game. Fuck them. He walks back toward town, toward the oncoming traffic so they can’t follow and scare away potential rides.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He checks over his shoulder to see if they’ve gone. They stay there for longer than Stiles feels is necessary. Maybe they’re too high to realize that they’ve lost their toy before the game really started. When they finally pull away, he turns again, moving in the direction of traffic, sticking out his cold thumb.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next car to pull up is dark. Black or blue. A sedan, something that wouldn’t be out of place in a procedural crime drama from the 90s. He can see a driver and no one else. That’s good, maybe. Driver wont be trying to show off for anyone. Could still be a serial killer, though.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey,” he leans down to the passenger window.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Where you headed?” buddy asks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stiles shrugs, “anywhere but here.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Buddy smiles at that, “me too. Come on.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He doesn’t drive away. He even turns on the heat, when Stiles gets in and starts rubbing his hands together. “Thanks,” he says, “been walking about an hour. He blows into his cupped hands then holds them up against the vents in the dash.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you have a destination in mind or is ‘away’ your top priority?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not really,” Stiles laughs. “Figured I’d start with East and work it out later.” He lives, lived, in California. East is a pretty big place. Though, he thinks, bitterly, Peter lives East. New York is across the country, sure, but that’s still East.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m headed up near Portland, myself,” buddy says, cheerfully. “My daughter just had a baby.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh yeah?” He’s more than happy to hear about this guy’s new grandbaby.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He nods. “A little girl. Evelyn. After her Grandmother, my wife’s Mother. She’s passed, now, but she was a good woman. Always so happy. Like Pollyanna.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stiles has no idea who Pollyanna is, but he’s pretty sure she’s not the point of the story. “So, is your wife meeting you there?” He notices the cuffs as soon as he’s finished talking. “Shit,” he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Buddy’s smile falls a bit. “It’s alright,” he says, taking one hand off of the wheel to adjust his mourning cuff. “Going on four years, now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My Dad has a pair, too. Six years,” he says, pulling down his hand length sleeves self-consciously.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Buddy notices the gesture and his smile turns sad. “Seems to be going around.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He thinks Stiles’ soulmate is dead. He leans into the door, resting his head on the window. Maybe he is. For Stiles, at least. There’s a certain stigma attached to being rejected by a soulmate. How fucked up do you have to be for the person destined to be your perfect match to want someone else. Some rando over the one true whatever the universe hand picked for you. He blinks away tears.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How long has it been?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He squeezes his eyes shut. Should he? Should he make a mockery of this man’s, of his Father’s, pain to avoid the ideas that come with a rejection? “Two months.” It comes out croaky. Like it was dragged out, kicking and screaming, over gravel, cigarettes, and whisky. He clears his throat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They don’t talk much for the first hour of the drive. Stiles tries not to scratch at the prickling of his skin as it adjusts to the sudden heat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He finds out that buddy’s name is Jasper and he’s from San Diego. His daughter, Jenny, had moved up to Portland for college and never left. He and his wife, Margaret, had been planning to move up to be with their daughter and her family, but then his wife had died and he hadn’t been able to leave their home.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He finds out that Jasper is a sad man who puts on a fake smile so the people around him don’t worry so much. He doesn’t want to be like Jasper.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes a good five hours before they stop for the night. Honestly, he’d expected to be kicked out by now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I can’t keep going,” he says, pulling up to a truck stop, with a motel across the street. He turns to Stiles. “You gunna keep at it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He shakes his head. “I’m going to take my pocket change over to that diner,” he points, “and see if they have any pie. Then I’m gunna find somewhere to sleep.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well,” Jasper sighs, “I need sleep, too. I can take you up to Portland, if you don’t mind waiting on an old man’s beauty sleep.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sounds good to me.” He doesn’t wait for a response as he gets out of the car. He does wait for Jasper before going into the diner, though.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He wakes up slowly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>HALE</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He moves his hand, so he can’t see the letters. He frowns. He blinks. He wrinkles his nose at that smell.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He pushes himself up, looking around the room. “Jasper?” he calls. There’s no response.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The room is disgusting. Not dirty, necessarily, but dingy. A permanent coat of grime that’s sunk so far into every surface that it can never be cleaned away. His bag is just inside the door. The bag he’d left in Jasper’s car last night. It’s the only personal possession in the room. His heart clenches. Rejected by a sad old man he’d known for less than a day. What chance did he have with a soulmate?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The bathroom is small, but it serves it’s purpose. He can’t say that he feels better after a shower, but he feels something close to better. Less grimy, at any rate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s not hurt. Not really. More disappointed. He’s not quite sure what happened. They’d gone to the diner, they’d had club sandwiches because “I’m too old for pie for dinner, Stiles.” Then they’d gotten a room and... And. Stiles had kissed him. He’s not sure why. Not sure what possessed him. Not sure what made him think that would be a good idea.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’d kissed Jasper, fully expecting to get kicked out of the room they’d just gotten. But Jasper had kissed back. And then they’d kept going.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stiles never thought that his first time would be in a disgusting motel room in the middle of Oregon with a stranger who had just become a grandfather. But here he is. Towelling at his hair in a disgusting motel room in the middle of Oregon after spending the night with a stranger who had just become a grandfather.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s his first full day of his new runaway teen status. He knows that clean clothes are going to become a luxury very quickly, but right now, he’s still in an I-have-a-washing-machine-downstairs mindset.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His bag is just as heavy as it was when he packed it. So Jasper didn’t steal anything. That’s good. There’s probably nothing in here that Jasper would’ve wanted, even if he were inclined toward theft from the self-made downtrodden.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jasper didn’t take anything, but he left something. On top of the clothes, in a neatish stack, are five twenty dollar bills.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stiles sits down on the bed. Jasper payed him. For sex? For silence? Stiles probably knows enough about him to find him, if he tries. Is this a pay off? Or just payment? He’s not sure. He’s not sure how he feels about it, either. Is he a whore, now? Does he care?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He gets dressed, puts the money in his wallet, and leaves. Drops the key off at the front desk without a word and heads back over to the diner.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Anyone going east?” he asks, probably too loudly, as he steps through the door. No one responds. “Or north?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A new buddy in the corner booth raises his hand, “I am. After my pie.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stiles looks down at the table. He’s still got a full slice. “Sounds like a gas.” He makes eye contact with one of the waitresses, “Slice of pie and a cup of coffee?” She nods.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m not paying for that,” buddy says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stiles pulls out a ten and lays it on the table, making very pointed eye contact all the while. He’s got his own money, now.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>This buddy’s name is Nick. Nick takes Stiles up to Portland and drops him off at another diner. He can’t go into the city proper with his big rig, but he takes Stiles as far as he can.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stiles had never been in a semi-truck before; it was louder than he would’ve thought. Not just because Nick had blasted classic rock the whole time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He makes his way into the city. He’s not sure about the logistics of hitchhiking in a city. Maybe he should go around? As unlikely as it is, he doesn’t want to risk running into Jasper. Staying away from hospitals and the suburbs should be a good place to start.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes him too long to remember what money does and how much he has on him. He can just buy a bus ticket. You don’t get carded for that, right?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes him longer to find the bus terminal and buy a ticket, than it does to actually get to Seattle. Good thing he can sleep on the bus. It’s only a short nap, but he’d been up half the night.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The first thing he does, when he gets off the bus, is buy himself some mourning cuffs.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He wanders. For over a week. The money is gone and he’s so fucking cold.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He hasn’t been here long enough to want to stay in one of the homeless encampments. He will. He knows that eventually he’ll become desperate enough for the company and the warmth and the food that he’ll go, but right now, he has too much middle-class pride for that.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He wanders for two weeks. He begs a bit and collects enough for a convenience store sandwich. It needs salt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He sees the sights. The Space Needle. It’s cool. It’s a tall building. He’s told that the monorail is pretty famous, too. He goes and looks at that. It’s not going anywhere he wants to visit, so he just looks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wants to go to the Science Centre and the Museum of Pop Culture. But the whole money thing. They want some, but he doesn’t have any. Fuckers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At least the library is free. Apparently he can get a tour of the library, but he doesn’t have a cell phone, anymore.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The market is pretty famous, too. It’s free to walk around and people tend to drop food. Score.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He wanders for a month. Holy shit. It’s been a month. He wonders if Peter sent another letter and hates himself for it.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s nearing the two month mark and he’s established himself a routine. People drop a lot of change at the bus station. More than you’d think. He collects that, then takes himself over to his favourite begging spot. All he has to do is sit there. Against a wall, knees drawn up with a pathetic look on his face and people throw, literally throw, money at him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the evenings, he goes to a diner. Seattle has more artisan coffee shops than the rest of the country combined. Probably. He hasn’t counted, but he has 12 dollars in his pocket and he’d be willing to bet it on this.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The diner is fairly large. Kind of retro. That’s probably the only reason it’s survived. Retro is so in right now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He goes because the evening waitress, Iris, loves him. She gives him free coffee if he makes her laugh.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Evening, beautiful,” he calls as he takes a seat in His Booth. It’s against the window facing the side street; quieter than the main road. Not Beacon Hills quiet, but still. Quiet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Kid,” she says, pouring out a cup of coffee for him, “you need a bath.” Her look is admonishing, but really, what does she expect him to do about that?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He lifts the collar of his shirt and takes a sniff. “Eugh. Yeah, maybe you’re right. Wanna let me use your shower?” He puts all of his change on the table, so she can see it. She refuses to serve him unless she knows up front that he has the money.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The look she gives him is a question of his intelligence so loud that he has to look away. “Do you want your usual?” Cheese burger and fries. Enough food that he fells comfortable eating nothing else all day. Now that his body has gotten used to surviving on reduced calories.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, thanks,” he empties a packet of cream into his coffee and sips at it. Still hot. Nice.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She sweeps the money off the counter and walks away with it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Iris doesn’t come back. A man in the white uniform of the kitchen staff puts down a plate of chicken parm and a huge bowl of Caesar salad. Then sits across from him. This is a twenty plus dollar meal. “I didn’t order this,” he points to the spread in front of him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You come here a lot.” The man’s accent is subtle. Some kind of Spanish, maybe. “Pedro,” the man says. “I own the place. Eat your supper,” he nods down at the food.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Iris comes over with a glass of soda. No. Pop. Iris comes over with a glass of pop. Stiles doesn’t usually buy pop, it’s more expensive than the coffee.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So what’s your story?” Pedro asks, when he’s taken a bite of his chicken.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He freezes. What can he say? <em>I ran away from home because Daddy lied to me? </em>Pedro’s eyes flick down to the white cuffs around his wrists. He looks away. Picks a crouton out of the salad with his fingers and pops it into his mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pedro leans back in his seat. “You’re old enough to get a job. So why don’t you?” It’s not accusatory, like it would be if Dad had asked. He’s just curious and asking a question.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stiles still has no idea what to say. ‘My Dad’s a sheriff and I don’t want him to find me’ sounds pretty juvenile.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I came here illegally,” he says. “Took me over ten years to get citizenship.” Illegal. He can do illegal.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My Mom got sick,” he shakes his head at his plate. He can’t believe he’s using her like this. “We came down to see a specialist. But then she died and there was no home to go back to.” His eyes well up and he blinks rapidly. He feels like he just stabbed a puppy. How could he do this? Use her like this; lie about his situation in such a disgusting way. He doesn’t want to eat anymore. Feels sick to his stomach. His stomach that starts growling as he looks down at his food. He closes his eyes and shoves another crouton into his mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Iris is getting old. Even workhorses need a break.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Up yours, Pedro,” she says cheerfully as she walks by.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pedro chuckles. “She’s cutting back. I need someone to fill the void she’s leaving behind.” Stiles sits up straighter. Is he being offered a job? Really? “I can give you three nights a week, three fifty an hour-” Stiles stomach sinks “-and the room out back.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wait. “A room?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pedro nods, “it’s a utility room. A janitor’s closet. It opens into the alley, so we don’t really use it. You can use the bathroom in here,” he gestures to the little hallway that leads to the bathrooms. “Don’t know about showers, but the sink is pretty big. Better than nothing,” he shrugs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What do you want me to do?” Pedro’s little half smile turns sad and it hits Stiles how that sounded. He shakes his head, “what’s the job? Just waiting tables?” It’s too late though, the damage has been done. Pedro thinks he’s been turning tricks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He nods, “that, and clearing, dishes at the end of the night. Floors, too. There’s a lull about three thirty, do the extra stuff then. And you gotta shower before you put on the uniform.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He purses his lips. He knows he smells, ok? He’s still new to all this and he hasn’t had a proper shower since that night in the motel. He nods because Pedro’s waiting for a response.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good,” he slaps the table, scooting over to the end of the booth and getting up. “You finish up and I’ll show you the room.” Then he walks away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just like that, Stiles has a job and a place of his own.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The room is small. So fucking small. But he’s made it his own. The utility sink and his new mini fridge take up half the fucking room, but there’s enough space for a folding camping cot with three memory foam mats (because comfort is non-negotiable) and Star Wars sheets (because Boba Fett is non-negotiable).</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes he feels like a sardine, but then he looks around his little room and has to smile. Because it’s his. He works for it, he maintains it, he decorated it. Though, the string of chili lights is the only decoration because Pedro wont let him put holes in the walls.</p><p> </p><p>He’s happy. Kind of. He’s content, at least. He still looks at his cuffs and feels the clenching in his gut. He still misses his liar of a Father, not that he’s bitter or anything. He Still thinks about Scott and even Katrina, sometimes. He hopes they’re doing well. All of them. Even Dad. Even Peter.</p><p> </p><p>He hopes that Peter is happy. Even if it’s without him.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t hate Peter, not really. He’s tried. He wanted to; so desperately.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not his fault, is the thing. Stiles can accept that, now. Now that he’s had some time. Put some distance between himself and all of them. Now that he’s lived.</p><p> </p><p>Sure, he’d payed bills for Dad, he’d kept the place clean and done the grocery shopping and cooking. But all that was just playing house, playing pretend. It was more responsibility than Scott had had, but it wasn’t proper adult life.</p><p> </p><p>Working isn’t like school. If he doesn’t show up to work, there’s more than an ‘oops’ waiting for him. And yeah, he only works three days a week, but he Has to work those three days. He’s not on the books, he doesn’t have any protections. If Pedro wants to fire him without warning, he can.</p><p> </p><p>Stiles likes Pedro, and he seems to like Stiles. He’d been patient, when Stiles was learning how all of this works. He’d even taken it in stride, when Stiles had started sleeping with the customers. Off duty, of course. He’d given Stiles a look and a bag of condoms, said “you be careful, kid” and left it at that.</p><p> </p><p>Yeah. Stiles likes Pedro.</p><p> </p><p>He likes the life that he’s made. He knows that he’s lucky. This could’ve ended so much worse for him. He could’ve been murdered on the way here. He could’ve even ended up dead if he’d taken the ride with those stupid kids in the old VW just outside of Beacon Hills. How embarrassing would that have been.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“He tried to leave town, but only managed to get to the Now Leaving Beacon Hills sign before he bit the big one. Sorry Sheriff. Your kid was an idiot.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He’s still an idiot, but at least he’s not a dead idiot.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He works eleven to seven. Not the best hours, but ideal for his already fucked up sleep schedule. He’s spent the last five or so years fighting with his body’s desire to produce melatonin after midnight; it’s nice to be somewhere where that isn’t an issue.</p><p> </p><p>The bell rings. He’s got his head halfway into the espresso machine that usually doesn’t work. Tonight it doesn’t work. “Be right with you,” he calls, waving a hand over his shoulder and he reaches for a piece on the inside of the machine that tends to get gummed up. He’s trying to figure out why that happens so he can fix it, so they can sell espresso on the regular. People love espresso. Especially in those tiny little cups.</p><p> </p><p>“Take your time. I’m just enjoying the view.” He knows that voice. He’s sat on the face that makes that voice. He sticks out his ass as he reaches up to unhook the mechanism. “Tease,” Mark says.</p><p> </p><p>Stiles manages to wiggle it loose and finally get out of the damn thing. “Hey, it’s only teasing if I don’t put out.”</p><p> </p><p>“And we all know you do,” he says, raking his eyes over Stiles stained white shirt. He only has the one and Pedro doesn’t care if it looks ‘lived in’.</p><p> </p><p>He leans over the counter, propping himself up on his elbows. “Are you calling me a slut?” He’s trying to sound angry, but it just sounds like he’s about to cough.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Mark leans into Stiles’ space, “what are you going to do about it?”</p><p> </p><p>He opens his mouth to respond. Something clever and sexy. Really. But he has a sudden urge. No, more like an imperative to look over to his left. His skin prickles, his belly flips, he can’t catch his breath. He knows what, who, he’ll see when he looks. He looks anyway.</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t seen Peter in over ten years, has never even had a face to face conversation with him, but there’s no doubt who he is. Those eyes, so fucking blue, seem to glow when they catch Stiles’. He shivers and sees Peter do the same. He comes over and sits down. Right next to Mark. Mark, who just raises the cup of coffee that Stiles has no recollection of pouring for him.</p><p> </p><p>Oh. “You motherfucker,” he says to Mark. It’s not angry. It almost sound affectionate. He can’t really be mad. This guy came in a few months ago and Stiles thought he was pretty. When he’d come back the next day, Stiles had asked if his pickle needed tickling and he’d said yes. It’s not like they’re friends or anything.</p><p> </p><p>Mark only smiles and gets up, taking his cup to the booth closest to the door.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t want to look at Peter. Probably couldn’t if he tried. He takes the bit of the espresso machine to the sink to clean. “What are you doing here?”</p><p> </p><p>“I came to see you. Happy birthday.” His voice goes straight down Stiles spine and jabs him in the fucking heart. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. “I called your Dad. When you stopped writing. The agreement we had was that I’d be kept up to date if I stayed away until you turned eighteen.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a rustling behind him and he turns only enough to see that Peter’s put a big bag on the counter. “I thought something had happened, when you didn’t write. I was ready to get on a plane.”</p><p> </p><p>Why, though? He was never interested before. He dries off the piece and moves back to the espresso machine to reinstall it. The rustling and moving about of things continues behind him. “Are you going to order something?” The piece goes in easier than it came out, after the gunk on the inside is wiped away, and he’s closing the case.</p><p> </p><p>Peter doesn’t respond. Stiles knows that he’s waiting for him to look, but he wont. He goes over to the sink and washes his hands. Still, Peter doesn’t respond. Someone at the end of the counter raises his cup and Stiles picks up the coffee carafe on his way over. Buddy orders another slice of pie and Stiles is grateful for the excuse to not talk to Peter.</p><p> </p><p>“If you’re not going to order, you have to leave,” he says on his way back.</p><p> </p><p>He heads for the salt shakers, they’re always on the verge of empty, but Peter says “coffee.” He pours a cup and puts it down in front of Peter. Faster than he can track, Peter has a hand around his wrist. Around his mourning cuff. “Look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>No, he’s not going to do that. He’s angry and confused and he wants to go back to his room and overthink about this for a while. Peter’s here. That means he cares, right? But what about the letter? He very clearly didn’t. And the agreement? Stay away until he turns eighteen. That was a year ago. He obviously sent Mark, but Mark got here almost six months ago, so why did Peter wait?</p><p> </p><p>“Let go of me,” he tells Peter’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Not until you look at me.” He doesn’t. His skin tingles where Peter’s hand touches the back of his, just next to the cuff.</p><p> </p><p>Peter reaches over to his bag and opens it with one hand. He has the letter box. Stiles’ letter box. The one filled with his letters. Just like that, he remembers why he left. Remembers feeling stupid and childish. Remembers the imagined images of Peter and his family laughing.</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s wrists are uncovered. He can see the Stiles written there, in his own sharp, almost jagged handwriting. So close to his own calligraphic Hale.</p><p> </p><p>“We talked to Scott, after you left. Your Dad and me. To see if he knew where you went.” He takes the lid off the box and runs his fingers over the letters inside.</p><p> </p><p>His stomach is in knots. His eyes are itchy and his chin is twitching in a very telling way. He just wants to go home; back to his room. Please, he just wants to go.</p><p> </p><p>“He told us what you said, about me humouring you. Your Dad read my letters.” He pulls at his hand, but Peter doesn’t let him go. He needs to go, though. He needs to get out and Peter needs to let him go. He can’t breathe and it’s too hot in here and he’s about to start crying.</p><p> </p><p>He takes a breath to call for Jimmy, the night cook, when, “I’m sorry,” Peter says, louder than he needs to. Loud enough to get Stiles’ attention. He looks up at Peter and one of the tears he’s been trying to keep at bay rolls down his cheek.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not good at this.” He chuckles, “your Dad didn’t let me leave, that night, until he’d torn me a legion of new ones. The words ‘aloof’, ‘uncaring’, and ‘cold’ were used a lot.”</p><p> </p><p>Stiles pulls at his arm again, but Peter doesn’t let him take it back. Instead, he brings his other hand over and takes hold of Stiles arm, above the cuff.</p><p> </p><p>The tingling is intense. It’s like pins and needles but sparkly. Carbonated? He doesn’t know. He really fucking likes it, though. He wants to take his shirt off and curl up into Peter’s chest and let go. Let all the bad fall away.</p><p> </p><p>He pulls harder, using the counter for leverage. He’s panicking, now. He needs to leave. “Let go- Jimmy!” he yells and even he can hear how frantic and shrill he is. There’s the clatter of something dropping and the sound of running not-quite-soft soled shoes and then his back is hitting the counter behind him and Jimmy’s in the doorway from the kitchen. He ducks out behind Jimmy, cradling his arm to his chest and trying not to sob.</p><p> </p><p>The back door is open, the kitchen gets hot, even during the winter. It’s not winter, yet, though.</p><p> </p><p>Getting into his room is a fucking ordeal, but he manages. Locking the door is easier than unlocking it and he’s on his cot, face in his pillow, and sobbing before his brain catches up.</p><p> </p><p>He gets a text, not ten minutes later, telling him that Peter’s gone and to get the fuck back out front or he’s calling Pedro, even if he has to wake him up.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He sleeps in the next day, though the garden gnomes trying to dig their way out of his skull do their best to get him up at a reasonable hour. Two extra strength off-brand Tylenol and half a bottle of water quiet them enough that he can get back to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>The risk of running into Peter, when he leaves his room is probably pretty high, but he makes himself do it anyway, if only to stop the cycle before it begins. He has laundry anyway.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Peter comes back. He should’ve expected it. He did expect it. Last week.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want?” he snaps, loudly enough that a pair of patrons in the corner booth turn to see what all the fuss is about. He raises a hand in apology, but they don’t turn away; don’t even pretend that they aren’t watching. The rules of social etiquette are different at night than they are during the day. “I don’t want you here.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter sits at the counter, pulling an envelope out of his jacket. “I came to give you this,” he holds it out. Stiles doesn’t take it. Doesn’t want a repeat of last time.</p><p> </p><p>He gets a smirk for his caution. Peter reaches over as far as he can stretch without getting up and puts the envelope beside the discarded mug two seats over. It has his name on it.</p><p> </p><p>The giant dish collection tub he has propped on his hip isn’t conducive to envelope opening, so he picks it up, shoves it in his apron pocket, then clears away the rest of the dishes.</p><p> </p><p>“Aren’t you going to open it?” Peter asks.</p><p> </p><p>Stiles goes into the kitchen to drop off the dishes. “Nope,” he says under his breath. “I’m going to wait until you leave then drop it in the garbage.” He comes back out, stops in front of Peter and says, so Peter can hear, “I’ll open it when I’m done my shift. Are you ordering or leaving?”</p><p> </p><p>Peter holds out his hand, “if you’re just going to throw it out, I’d rather have it back. I’m sure I can find someone who’ll want it.”</p><p> </p><p>He huffs. He was sure Peter wouldn’t’ve been able to hear him. He tugs the rag off of his shoulder and heads over to the end of the counter so he can wipe it down where Peter isn’t.</p><p> </p><p>“Look,” Peter snaps and the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stands on end, “if you-” He stops. He starts again, “if I broke this, then fine, but can we at least be civil? And would you take <em>those</em> off?”</p><p> </p><p>Stiles could be forgiven for hearing ‘puss bags smeared with shit’, rather than ‘those’, based on Peter’s tone. “You didn’t break anything. There was nothing to break. You were pen pals with a child who grew up and stopped writing. No big. You can go home, now.”</p><p> </p><p>The couple in the corner gets up to leave and Stiles stands on tippy toes to see if there’s cash on the table. There is.</p><p> </p><p>When Peter speaks again, his voice is soft and not quite sad, “you’re not going to talk to me, are you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter nods. He gets up. He leaves. Without another word. He’s just gone and it’s too quiet.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Pedro comes in at seven and Stiles doesn’t even realize how late it is until he’s snapping right in Stiles’ face. “You okay, kid?”</p><p> </p><p>Of course he’s not actually asking if Stiles is okay, he’s asking for Stiles to tell him that he’s okay, so he can feel better about helping without actually doing anything. He’s telling Stiles to hide his emotions better, before they get all over someone.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m alright,” he nods.</p><p> </p><p>But, Pedro keeps watching him. “He come back?” he nods to Stiles’ cuffs.</p><p> </p><p>Ah. So jimmy told him about the other night, then. Stiles doesn’t want to lie to him, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge Peter as his soul mate, either.</p><p> </p><p>“Feel free to tell me to fuck off,” Pedro says, before he can think of any kind of response, “but, whatever he did, was it really so bad that you can’t even talk to him?”</p><p> </p><p>Stiles feels like a child all over again. He feels like he’s being scolded by his Father. Pedro’s been, what, his benefactor? Pedro’s been his something for over a year, now. Do they have that kind of relationship?</p><p> </p><p>“I’m tired,” is all he can come up with. “I’m going to go to bed. G’night.” He leaves, waving over his shoulder when Pedro calls his own ‘good night’.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He hangs his apron on the wall, next to the door, and sees the envelope peeking out of the pocket. He’d forgotten about it. There’s something about envelopes that just beg to be open. Envelopes and boxes. But, no. He’s better than that oddly shaped, mechanically folded piece of paper. It wont beat him.</p><p> </p><p>The next hour is spent cleaning off as much of the day’s grime as he can get with his sink, changing into his pjs and starting an episode of Futurama on the ten-year-old laptop that he bought from Iris, when her son got a new one.</p><p> </p><p>The episode is almost over when he can’t take it anymore. He gets up, grabs the envelope and tears it open, mindful of the contents. Its- he falls onto his bed. It’s two tickets to Batuu. Two tickets to Disneyland’s Star Wars park. He looks down at his sheets. Boba Fett doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell him what he should do.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a phone number in the envelope, too. That’s it, just two tickets and a sticky note with a phone number on it.</p><p> </p><p>He puts everything away and goes back to Futurama. He’s not sure why he even tried, he spends the rest of the episode watching the envelope.</p><p> </p><p>The best thing about his little room, besides the fact that it’s his, is that sound doesn’t travel. So, when he rolls over, shoves his face into his pillow and screams, he knows that no one will hear it.</p><p> </p><p>After his little, um, therapeutic expulsion, it’s easy to grab his phone, punch in the numbers on the sticky and type out <em>This doesn’t mean youre forgiven...</em></p><p> </p><p>The second best thing about his little room, is that there are no windows, so no one can look in as they walk by and see him smile at the text he gets almost immediately. <em>I guess I’ll have to </em><em>try harder</em><em>, then</em></p>
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